


What the Future May Hold

by Minirose96



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Not Doctor Who, Stepping through the void, Time Travel AU, Time isn't always a straight line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2562239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock stepped into a void in the closet of one of his crime scenes, he never expected to come out in a redesigned version of that same crime scene. He also never expected to find Molly waiting for him, but the biggest surprise was coming face to face with himself. Now its a journey to get back to his own time, but what will he do with with everything he learns in the process? And what will his future hold now? </p><p>Previously Titled "In Another Time"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into Black

Sherlock looked at the time on his phone as he stepped into the burned up remains of the flat that was his latest crime scene. Much to his dismay, this case looked to be less than a four. It was a boring case of arson, not something he would usually waste his time with, and in truth, he would  _not_ be wasting his time here had he not been looking for a distraction from the evening ahead.

It had been two years since Moriarty's return, and six months since his defeat. Moriarty was not well and truly dead. Of course, that wasn't what had Sherlock searching the burned up flat.

In the last two years, and a few of the months that preceded it, he had grown accustomed to – if not at all fond of – the absence of one of the few people he could say he trusted wholly with his life.

He  _had_ trusted her with his life before.

Molly Hooper had refused to speak to or work with him since he had mocked her failed engagement while high on more substances than he would care to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind. He conceded now that perhaps he had overdone his drug use, conceded that he had been bored and missed the high, and he had taken out much of his frustrations on her that day.

She had been put into protective custody, courtesy of his brother, while Moriarty was tracked down. His insults and the separation combined had left somewhat of a rift between them.

The voice in Sherlock's head chose then to remind him, as he examined a charred bit of flooring where the fire had started, that Molly  _had_ chosen to be out of contact with him in the few months between his insult and the months following her return from protective custody and subsequent return to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Until Yesterday.

she had texted him out of the blue the night before, three simple sentences that had made him contemplate what to do with the current situation.

_I'm tired of you coming into the lab and both of us refusing to talk to each other like adults. Let's just… talk. I'll be at Angelo's at 7 tomorrow, so we can stop this… mess we've made. ~ Molly_

Sherlock hadn't known that she had even bothered to save his number. He'd never tried to contact her himself either, finding it best to leave her alone given their last exchange. He'd saved her number though, even going so far as to transfer it over to his new mobile after his last one met an untimely fate that had also cracked one of his ribs six months previously. The simplistic criminal's need to swing metal pipes at him never ceased to irritate him.

That she had not only contacted him, but also chosen a neutral ground instead of the morgue or his or her flat, and that she was willing to attempt some sort of reconciliation had Sherlock at a loss as to how to handle the situation.

Throughout the night, he had thought about the various choices he had. The simplest would be to just not go. Molly would no doubt take his absence as a refusal, as proof that he didn't care about her presence or lack thereof. She would no doubt accept this, and though her feelings would be hurt, Sherlock knew that she would ultimately move on and accept the final nail in the coffin of their already almost-nonexistent friendship.

Though he had contemplated this briefly, the idea refused to sit right in his mind, because the implications weren't correct. While it wouldn't be simpler, easier, to not go, in the last two years Sherlock had found himself missing the uncomplicated interactions the skilled pathologist had offered him, especially in the time after his return and before his careless words. This went beyond him simply missing his favors, asking for tools and body parts and coffee. He missed the confidence, the intelligence, the humor and the calm joy that Molly brought with her when they interacted. That base curiosity she had, the acceptance of him despite – and even because of – his obvious flaws and failings in what most people found so easy to comprehend.

With all this displayed in his mind for his perusal, the second choice, to go and make amends, should have been the obvious one. While he had no doubt that they  _could_ make amends, it would take time to reach the comfort they'd once had, and Sherlock was certain that he would inevitably say or do something to once again crumble whatever sort of connection they formed. It was his nature to do so.

Wouldn't it be better, then, to go with the first option and save them both the emotional strain? Not that he cared about his own suffering. Molly's, however, did concern him. She had helped him far too much to deserve any more of his harsh actions and his even harsher tongue.

Sherlock nodded to himself, his mind made up. The more selfish of the choices, to go and make amends knowing that it would lead to pain for both of them, was the choice that he'd have made in the past. But he wasn't the man that he'd once been. Molly would be better off without him, no matter the unease he felt at his decision.

 _Not that it mattered_ , Sherlock thought, glancing once more at his phone to check the time. Their meeting was to take place in twenty-three minutes. The cab ride would take fifteen, depending on how crowded the roads were. Molly would wait until eight, he knew. An hour, in which she would call him the vilest things she could imagine, only to twist and squirm in her seat, making excuses and assurances to herself about his absence.

At 7:45, she would text him again, just to see if he was all right. Once she chose to open her heart to him again, her usual compassion would hinder her rational thinking.

He would ignore the message.

At eight, he'd receive another. A final goodbye, he was certain, and she would harden herself against him. There would be no returning to how things had been, no reconciliation, after that.

It would be kinder to do it this way.

And the arson was solved as well. Sherlock smirked. It really was too basic a case for him to have wasted his time with. He'd found the point of origin, he'd found the matchbox used to start the fire outside, poorly hidden in the shrubbery at the front of the building, and now all he needed was the accelerant used. He knew where the would-be criminal had hidden it was well.

It the hall closet, the only area that seemed untouched by the flames. It was like a protective ring had surrounded the door, leaving a clear curve of floor where burned and unburned met. Of course, there had to be some cause for the separation, but Sherlock didn't care about the  _what_ of the matter in that instance. Some durable piece of furniture must have once been in front of the door to create such an effect.

The door, upon testing the handle, opened easily. Sherlock was met by a wall of black.

 _No, not quite a wall_ , Sherlock observed. It wasn't solid, as he proved by a quick prodding with his left index finger. The blackness seemed to give around his finger as he penetrated it, only to slowly sink back into place like some sort of low-density foam as he withdrew.

He wondered how far back it went. He tested it again, sinking his whole arm into the black, unable to find an end. Again he withdrew, and the displaced mass once again drooped back into place.

Curious.

It didn't appear harmful. His arm had returned to him unscathed, just as his finger had before.

_Now this is something worth investigating._

In a motion that was both reckless and ambitious, Sherlock stepped forward into the black, allowing it to swallow him as he strode forward to find its end and discover its purpose. 


	2. Something Old, Something New

Walking through the darkness was very much like what walking through tapioca up to one's neck would feel like. Sherlock couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. At least, he though his hand was in front of his face. His perception was also greatly diminished in the substance.

He had just begun to regret his decision when the end came abruptly enough to have him banging his head on a very hard, very solid wall. He also felt something – or somethings – brushing against his back and a heavy line of some kind tapping his forehead in a most annoying fashion as he stepped away from whatever solid object he'd run into.

He reached first for the line, giving it a sharp tug with the intention of dislodging it from whatever source it came from. Instead of doing so, there was a small click, and the area around him with lit up from a single bulb on the ceiling. Sherlock let go of the pull string and looked around at his cramped surroundings.

The solid was he'd run into was actually a door, its handle sitting slightly below waist height. The things that had brushed against his back were an assortment of coats belonging to a somewhat petite woman and a taller man of lean build. A married couple, middle-aged based on the styles.

He pushed aside the coats to confirm that the black mass that he'd initially entered was now gone, replaced by a dull wooden wall that serves as the back of what Sherlock could only surmise was the very coat closet he'd expected to find upon opening the door.

Still, he knew that this was not where he had entered, and the black mass had spread over several of his long strides, not the scarce three by four foot room he now found himself in.

Unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion that was not both paradoxical and impossible – and getting tired of the pull string tapping against his head – Sherlock decided that the best course of action would be to continue moving forward. Or, since it was the only way to go, to get out of the bloody closet.

The handle gave easily as he tested it, and Sherlock stepped forward out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

His face was blank as he took in his surroundings, hiding his otherwise stark surprise.

It was the flat.

Or rather, it was the flat if someone spent the time, effort, and several thousand pounds to fix the damage from the fire. Someone obviously had done just that, as well as going a bit further as well, turning the disaster area into a home.

The charred and cracked tile that had made up the front hall had been replaced with a sleek dark wood paneling. A simple rectangular run lay on top of the paneling, a guide into the living room from the front door.

The walls were split. The bottom half was an oak wood paneling and the top was smooth wallpaper. The dark pattern had a vaguely Victorian feel, which matched what seemed to be the overall feel of the decor of the flat.

As Sherlock moved into the living room, he observed more of the mixture of old Victorian styled furnishings and modern day comforts. An Elegant black leather loveseat was against the far left wall, and a matching full length couch was perpendicular to it against the back wall. An ebony coffee table was between the two. An armchair was tucked in the corner between the loveseat and couch. A television sat on a long ebony stand matching the coffee table, and on either side of it on the wall were pictures, a few little knick-knacks, nothing interesting.

Sherlock ultimately ignored them without even bothering to look closely at who the pictures contained. He'd learned enough about the couple who lived here without learning what they looked like as well.

The final piece of furniture, stirred some deep rooted memory in him. A crib, settled right beside the loveseat. It was new, purchased less than six months previously. It was so much like his own from infancy. Of course, he didn't actually remember it, but his mother had pictures of him in it displayed in her dining room, as any proud parent would.

It was currently empty, aside from a few toys and a hand-stitched light blue, pale yellow, and soft pink patchwork quilt. It was made so that new patches of cloth could easily be added to the edges. It could grow with the infant, something to be carried through her whole life.

The room as a whole was devoid of the cluster of personal items that many homes contained. Besides the knick-knacks by the television, a small stack of books on the coffee table, and a few candles that had been lit at one point or another, there was very little in true sentimental items.

Though this might say that the family was torn, other evidence showed that they were in fact quite content together.

The sheer multitude of water rings stained onto the table in front of the couch told Sherlock that they often spent their time together in front of the television. Perhaps it was some sort of morning routine, sharing coffee or tea. No doubt the wife read one of the novels on the coffee table and the husband read the morning paper. A dull, boring routine repeated each and every day that brought them close and gave them some form of base entertainment.

Another sign was how worn the loveseat was. Though all the furniture was bought in the same short period of time, the loveseat showed wear in the seats, close together, meaning the couple liked their closeness. In contract, the armchair showed the least amount of wear. The couch settled somewhere between used and unused, perhaps a favorite piece for guests to sit, when there were any.

So, they were comfortable together, but neither felt the need to display their relationship in meaningless trinkets, odds and ends, as someone who wasn't secure in their relationship might have.

"Sherlock, is that you?"

Sherlock instantly went rigid when he heard his name, and he cursed his lack of focus to his surroundings outside of this room. He should have heard someone else come into the flat, if they weren't here already.

Of course, even if he had known someone else was here, he still wouldn't have suspected that familiar voice to be his greeting call. Perhaps a baseball bat clumsily swung at his forehead, or the clicking of a gun being cocked. Not a greeting. Not from her.

He turned as Molly came into view, a frown breaking through his stoic facade. "How did you find me? Did Lestrade tell you that I was working this case?"

His questions were met with a giggle and a smile. "AS if I need Lestrade to tell me you'd be late for dinner."

Sherlock blinked. She wasn't angry. In fact, she looked… content. Teasing, even. There was something different about her. She certainly wasn't acting as though she'd just tracked him down after being stood up.

All thoughts of discovering her motives left him as she drew intimately close, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. The motion was so smoother, so relaxed, as if it was a gesture done often, that Sherlock almost felt guilty for the way his body stiffened against her embrace.

Molly didn't seem to notice, her teasing smile still in place, creating a happy crinkle in her nose.

In his effort to catalog and understand her bold, unusual behavior, her continued actions didn't register until her lips, soft and definitely not too small, were pressed against his.

If his body was stiff before, it went into rigidity comparable only to rigor mortis in his shock. His arms were up in an awkward position between shoved into his pockets and gripping her. Whether his grip would have been to pull her closer or push her away, he wasn't entirely sure.

The experience wasn't unpleasant. Definitely not unpleasant. But it was unexpected. He didn't know how to react.

Thankfully in the end he didn't have to. Molly pulled back with a scowl. "You taste like ash." She let out a sigh that spoke volumes. "You promised you were done smoking!" her nose scrunched up as she inhaled. "You smell like ash too…"

She took the tiniest step back, her hands moving to fumble with the collar of his shirt with a familiarity that really should have been lost in their lack of communication. "I could have sworn you wore the burgundy one today…"

Sherlock looked down, frown back in place as he looked at his shirt. It most certainly was the one he'd left his flat in that morning, a deep navy. It had been pristine this morning, but had since gathered dust and ash stains from the crime scene. Not that Molly should know that regardless, since they hadn't seen each other all day, let alone that morning.

Before he could say as much, he was struck silent as the front door from the hall behind him shut loudly, and another familiar, animated voice came streaming into the room ahead of its owner.

"I know I'm late Molly, but you wouldn't believe the case that Lestrade had for me. I haven't had a nine in…"

The voice trailed off into an abrupt silence as the newcomer took in the sight of Molly standing so comfortably close to the man whose face he couldn't see.

Molly, for her part, looked absolutely shell shocked as she peeked past Sherlock with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face.

Her voice was high as she spoke the newcomer's name.

"Sherlock?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this fic will probably change title and summary very soon, as I don't feel either of them do this fic justice. If anyone has any suggestions on a better title/summary blurb with this second chapter, I would really appreciate it, thank you!!!


	3. Seeing Double

Sherlock was stiff and completely still as he tried to process how he could be hearing his own voice behind him. He refused to contemplate the obvious solution. There couldn't possibly be two of him.

He refused to look as hurried steps fled from the room.

Molly gave him a fleeting glance filled with confusion and hurt before she ran after the other man.

"Sherlock, wait! Please, it's not what it looks like!"

There was a slam, as though the front door have been shut just as it was opened. Molly must have reached him before he could escape.

There was a cursing. "How long?" Sherlock's deep voice demanded, laced with the sting of betrayal and anger. He didn't await an answer before continued, "Bloody Hell, and you used to worry that I was going to get get bored with  _you._ Some bloody joke that was." His tone was filled with a mocking spite. Sherlock could see the sneer etched on his own face - because what other face would he use, with his voice filling the flat?

Another slam, as Sherlock tried to depart and Molly stopped him.

"Sherlock, stop!"

There was a heavy thump against the wall, and a startled, pained whine.

Molly's whine.

It was that sad, desolate sound that shook Sherlock from his frozen stupor. He turned for the hall, rushing, only to come to a halt as his eyes fell upon the scene before him.

Molly, sunk to the floor with her back pressed against the wall, clutching her head in her hands. She'd obviously knocked it against the wall quite forcefully when Sherlock - the  _other_  Sherlock - had shoved her out of the way, or possibly just  _away._

The other Sherlock knelt in front of her, his hands hesitantly hovering over hers. He knew the expression he wore. He made it several times himself, whenever his temper or anger flared, and he accidentally hurt someone he cared about. He didn't know his own strength when he got truly mad. As it was, the other Sherlock's anger was replaced with concern and regret at the harm he'd done. Hurting Molly had not been his intention, no matter his actions or his agitation.

His concern shifted again from concern to confusion as he looked up, ready to curse his wife's apparent extramarital lover, only to be met with himself.

Molly groaned softly as she looked between the two as they sized each other up for the few differences between them. Now that she looked herself, there were a few.

Her Sherlock had a tiny ghosting of grey hair mixed in with his lovely raven curls. Just a few, but it gave him a slight silvered look about him that spoke of a future as a magnificent silver fox, destined to turn heads for years to come. His eyes were also somehow softer, a few wrinkles and laugh lines where there were none on the other. He had a small scar on his wrist as well, from two years ago when he'd taken a knife from a criminal he'd been pursuing.

Then there was their clothes. Her Sherlock was indeed wearing the burgundy dress shirt and black slacks she'd seen him off in, as opposed to the other's navy one.

And the wedding band on her husband's left hand. A lovely simple silver band. The thing that set it apart was the fingerprint in black facing upwards on the band. It was actually her fingerprint, as they'd had the rings custom made with this. Her wedding ring had his fingerprint on it.

"I tried to tell you, you idiot," she finally said, breaking the boy's concentration on each other and drawing two identical slightly-frowning expressions her way.

The Sherlock in front of her nodded slightly, easily acquiescing to her insult. It was completely justified, and a blank expression concealed his anguish at his actions.

Molly lowered her hands after another moment, the ache of hitting her head fading, and Sherlock cupped her cheeks gently. "I'm sorry." The apology left his lips so quietly, that the other in the hall could scarcely hear it. "I should have known better."

Molly hummed her agreement as he learned forward to kiss her brow softly.

The simple intimate action left Sherlock feeling an intruder to the display. It didn't last long, thankfully.

Sherlock - the other Sherlock? The married Sherlock? - helped Molly up from the ground before turning to face his duplicate.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in the living room. I'll make tea. Molly, why don't you check on Cherise?" He gave her another peck on her forehead, and then swept from the hall.

Sherlock frowned. Surely he wasn't that dramatic all the time.

"Yes you are,"

His eyes flitted back to Molly, frowning. "How -"

"Your nose twitches when you judge someone's flair," she replied before he could finish, giving him a wane smile.

From there, it was an awkward silence, that spanned several long agonizing seconds, which drifted into minutes. Neither of them seemed willing to budge first, or break eye contact.

Only the whistling of a kettle and a baby's high pitched shrieking broke it.

Molly rushed past Sherlock, who was again struck still.

A baby. Of course he'd registered it, deduced from the cradle and the toys and baby proofing. The quilt from the crib had been familiar. It struck him how of course it was familiar - it was made with the same love and care as his own when he was a child. It was probably made by the same hands that had crafted his own. His mother liked to make patchwork after all.

The baby's cries grew softer and eventually dwindled down to nothing. Molly's coos could be heard in the side room -  _the baby's room_  - and Sherlock could hear the other one clattering cups onto a tray in the kitchen as the kettle silenced as well.

With nowhere to go and no idea what the devil was going on - though he had some extremely far-fetched explanations - he went to the living room, sat down in the armchair, put his elbows on his knees, and put his hands together and his fingers to his lips as he tried to make sense of it.

Nothing made sense.

But his age old rule played through his mind. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The only truth he could see though, was beyond improbable. Time travel didn't exist.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely Liathwen <3


End file.
